


possibly, maybe

by hiensou



Category: Free!
Genre: ....happy birthdaaaay, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista Tachibana Makoto, M/M, birthday fic for haru!!! i was p adamant about keeping it fluffy but we all know i cant do that, so just like with the sickfic it's a giant mess of cutesy stuff wrapped up at the end with some dirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:44:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4243011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiensou/pseuds/hiensou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d swear he only came to this particular coffee shop because of their perfectly brewed coffee and incontestable blueberry muffins. It wasn’t like he had spent half his time glancing over his textbooks at the too-far smile that set jitters in his stomach. No, sir. He definitely never compared Tachibana’s hair to the café au laît ordered by the tall woman in heels every Monday morning, either.</p><p>(Coffee Shop AU for Haruka's birthday! Also goes with a fanmix linked in the notes.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	possibly, maybe

**Author's Note:**

> because haru deserves something lighthearted and happy for his birthday, and coffee shop aus are - to me - one of the most frivolous au's out there.
> 
> listen to the accompanying fanmix here: http://8tracks.com/hiensou/possibly-maybe
> 
> thanks to shinx for beta'ing!

The weather had held a promise of downpour all week. Ominous clouds of thick grey loomed over Tokyo, settling a mild unease within Haruka, well accompanied by an all-too characteristic anticipation. Rain was a problem in that Haruka often carried half-heartedly concealed canvases and a laptop with him to and from university, but it was also like a Christmas tree. Beneath it was no home for dazzling wrapping paper around expensive, new toys, but a childish glee overwhelmed him all the same. Haruka did not get to swim as often these days and therefore found solace in at least getting half-way to freestyle; rain plastering his hair to his forehead or fingertips pruning in the bathtub were two of the most common examples.

Today, however, he was carrying a newly finished painting beneath his arm as he jogged along the sidewalk towards his small apartment—as was also a rather common occurrence. As much as he would have liked to stop, spread his arms like wings and fully take in the feeling of harsh droplets against his cooling cheeks, he couldn’t afford wasting the time and material spent on his work for the sake of a soak. It was better to hurry home and take a real bath.

Haruka clicked his tongue as the drops smattered down even harder. There was still at least ten minutes until he’d reach his door, and by then, the painting would be positively ruined. He held the canvas closer to his body, tugging vainly at the cloth swept lazily over it.

He realised then that, luckily, he was only a few metres from the coffee shop he used to frequent some time ago. That was before his educational workload decided to duplicate, succeeding in squeezing his free time down to near nothingness. Haruka quickened his pace, silently praying that they would still be open.

Much to his relief, the door slid open as he pressed against it. The inside of the café was dark and quiet, with no customers or baristas in sight. Haruka could feel his pulse thrum against his skin, but decided that he could at least take shelter until he was told to get the hell out, and perhaps then the rain would have calmed.

The door chimed for the second time as it closed behind him, and his eyes travelled the poorly lit room. On his right by the windows were booths with one-legged tables, the farthest one his regular breakfast and after-school study session spot, half a year ago or so.

A small smile tugged at his lips; it had been far too long since he came here. Despite the dim light, it all looked the same, and an instant calm washed over his shivering body. Haruka took a deep breath, soothing the quaking of his body a bit as the adrenaline from running escaped him, replaced by that trademark scent of coffee beans and caramel.

Upon releasing his breath, however, he froze as he realised the door on the opposite side of the counter was slowly creeping open. Haruka sealed his lips shut, keeping the air inside of him despite his lungs’ exertion from running. If he had believed in ghosts, he might have been scared, but instead it was sheepishness that tingled beneath his soaked clothes as he waited for whomever it was to enter and see Haruka bringing half the Atlantic onto their floor.

A man turned in a circle from behind the back door, carrying a large cardboard box that seemed to not only slow him down but also keep his focus gripped. The door swung shut again as he continued toward the counter, and finally he looked up, mirroring Haruka’s rigid stance as blue met… whatever colour his eyes were. _Why are you working in the dark…?_ Haruka wanted to inquire, but felt in no position to be asking questions. Especially not ones of such accusatory nature.

“Sorry, we’re closed—” the man began, before he seemed to realise what a state Haruka was in. He had begun to shiver again, rather violently this time. “Oh my god, you’re soaked!”

The man hurried to put the box down, the items within it rattling loudly. He rounded the counter and came over to Haruka, hands reaching out and pulling back again uncertainly, mouth ajar and eyes blinking as if in a frenzy.

“I’m sorry,” Haruka muttered and stared down at the pool of rainwater that was forming around him. “I’ll help you clean up.”

“We need to get you out of those clothes, you’ll—what’s that?” the man pointed to the canvas in Haruka’s hand, “Is that a picture? Oh no, is it ruined?”

Haruka shrugged and held it out for the man to take. “It will be if I keep it pressed against me. Here.”

Without a word, the presumed barista snatched it from Haruka’s hand and hurried to place it softly on the counter next to the cardboard box. He then turned back to the other, who was feeling like a drenched kitten, helpless and mildly humiliated. The barista didn’t look like he found the situation bothersome or humorous, however, but simply scratched his chin in pensiveness as he looked Haruka up and down.

Haruka cleared his throat. “Is it okay if I stay until the rain has stopped?” he asked, “Like I said, I’ll help you clean up.”

“Sure, sure,” the man waved his hands dismissively and took a few steps closer, “We’re not actually open at all right now because we just finished renovating, I just headed over to check up on it, and,” he gestured toward the box, “leave some stuff. But um. Yeah, I can let you stay! Uh, you really should change clothes though, or you’ll get pneumonia.”

Haruka scoffed quietly, doubting the possibility of him suffering anything more fatal than a cold from this ordeal, but chose not to argue lest the man revoked his kindness and ordered Haruka back outside.

“There should be some extra shirts and slacks in the back you can borrow, hold on a second.” Haruka nodded as the man half-jogged out the back door, returning a few minutes later with a dark brown polo shirt and black trousers, both adorned with the coffee shop’s logo and name.

“Thank you,” Haruka said with a slight incline of his head as the man handed him the change of clothes. He was sincerely grateful; not a lot of people would show so much concern for a stranger—or as little for the mess on the floor.

“Don’t mention it,” the man grinned at him kindly, “You can go change in the bathroom, it’s right around—”

“I know where it is,” Haruka nodded to him again, starting to walk toward where the barista’s hand was already gesturing. A wet trail was left behind him as he struggled not to slip on the polished wooden floor, textile shoes squeaking against it.

“Ah, you’ve been here before,” the man mused quietly to himself. “Wait, actually…”

Haruka stopped and turned back toward him. The man blinked his eyes a few times, before walking behind the counter and flipping a light switch. The room lit up, mahogany furniture causing a cosy, golden glow to blanket the room despite the absence of a sun peeking in through the windows. Although the counter was about twice as long as it had been half a year ago, circling the far corner of the room in a crescent moon, the coffee shop seemed close to identical to how Haruka remembered it.

“Oh…” the man breathed upon seeing Haruka’s features in full light.

Haruka simply blinked back at him for a moment before calmly taking the final steps and disappearing behind the bathroom door.

When Haruka re-entered the room, the man was keeping himself busy unloading the box he had brought with him. The room was lit halfway, giving a sense of it being evening without straining the eyes. “Better?” the man asked once he saw Haruka walking toward the opposite side of the counter.

“Better.” he confirmed, sitting down on one of the barstools. His painting lay beside him, and he fiddled a little with the edge of the cloth that draped it.

“I’m Tachibana Makoto, by the way,” the man said, holding a hand out for Haruka to shake. The nostalgic image of a nametag with that exact name flashed before Haruka’s eyes, and he hid his smirk with a bite of his lip.

“Nanase Haruka.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Nanase. Soaked and all.”

A breath of sheepish amusement left Haruka, and his gaze fell downwards. “I hung my clothes up on the sinks in the bathroom so that they’d dry off a bit,” he twisted on his seat to cast a glance at the entrance, only to find the floor empty of any water whatsoever. “And I’ll—oh.”

“I had nothing better to do while you were changing, so.” Tachibana shrugged, eyes cast low on the items he was moving to various shelves behind the counter. There seemed to be mostly packages of snacks and decorative ingredients, but also a little family of brightly yellow cups and matching plates.

Haruka made a show of pushing his bottom lip out. “I said I would do it.”

“It’s fine, really,” Tachibana glanced up from his work, a soft smile splitting his cheeks. Haruka vaguely remembered seeing that smile before. He also remembered the pinch of his gut upon seeing it, albeit a lot more vividly.

“Still as hospitable as ever, huh.” Haruka crossed his arms and leaned back a bit, despite the lack of a backrest.

Tachibana perked up, light eyelashes batting as he, once again, blinked at Haruka with all the confusion in the world. Then, the gears in his head seemed to come to a halt. “I knew I had seen you before!”

Haruka shrugged.

“You used to be a regular, didn’t you? You’re that… the swimmer. The freestyle swimmer.”

Haruka looked down, feeling a little uneasy being the absolute center of their conversational topic, “How do you even remember? You must get at least a dozen people in here every day.”

Tachibana laughed joyfully, seeming to take the insinuation that his coffee shop was _that_ popular to heart, “Oh, we definitely get a lot more customers now than back when you used to frequent the place, but we’re still a small business compared to, well, Starbucks. They’re like two streets down, so.”

“…I see.” Haruka mumbled, despite Tachibana’s answer not quite explaining how Haruka remained so clear in his memory. But he supposed some simply had impressive long-term memories, and that was that.

What Makoto failed to mention was that, half a year ago, he had had a rather serious crush on the dark-haired swimmer from down the block frequenting the far left corner of his view from the counter. He failed to mention that, through his assertive co-worker Nagisa, it had been far too easy finding out that this gorgeous, quiet, stark-black-coffee drinker was an art student at the Tokyo National University of Fine Arts and Music, who swam in his free time and had a knack for cooking.

Makoto was no creep, but he _was_ embarrassed and—as was rather obvious now that he had Haruka sitting before him once again, actually talking to him and looking him in the eye every so often—still indubitably head over heels.

Coincidentally, Haruka failed to mention that it had been a two-way street. He’d swear he only came to this particular coffee shop because of their perfectly brewed coffee and incontestable blueberry muffins. It wasn’t like he had spent half his time glancing over his textbooks at the too-far smile that set jitters in his stomach. No, sir. He definitely never compared Tachibana’s hair to the café au laît ordered by the tall woman in heels every Monday morning, either.

“So, um,” Makoto started, thumbing the giant, amber coffee cup in his hands nervously, “You must be in university, right? Are you training to be a professional swimmer?”

Haruka shook his head. “No. I don’t swim for that sake. I’m an art student.”

“Oh, so you made that?” Makoto made sure to keep his surprise as authentic as possible, pointing to the hidden canvas beside the dark-haired man. Haruka nodded, dropping the corner of the cloth from his hands and running a palm across the surface of the canvas.

“I finished it just last week, but it takes a while to dry. It’s for an art exhibition meant to attract third years in high school to attend Art.”

Makoto allowed a silent pause before asking, “Can I see it?”

There was some hesitation on Haruka’s end; he was usually apprehensive about showing his art to people who weren’t his professors. Tachibana seemed harmless, however, his estimation of the picture certainly positive. Haruka had watched him almost daily a few months ago, and knew that he was the sort of person to put on a smile for others even when he did not have or want to. Haruka did not need anyone’s pity-compliments, but the chance of that was doubtlessly microscopic; he knew he was a good artist. Better than suited his humble reluctance.

So with that, he pulled the cloth off and spun the canvas around until it was facing Makoto.

Makoto stared for a moment, before putting the cup down and walking over to Haruka. His fingers hovered cautiously above the skillful cluster of oil colour strokes, before settling at the corner where the layer of paint was the thinnest.

“Wow,” he breathed out, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, “This is… Better than I could have imagined.”

Haruka rubbed at his arm awkwardly. “Thanks.”

“I can see why they chose you for the exhibition; you’re a brilliant artist, Nanase.”

Haruka nodded once, silenced by the flattery, and swept a few ebony strands of hair from his face. Tachibana continued to examine his work for a minute or two, the air still and quiet in an oddly comfortable way. Haruka listened to the pitter-patter of the rain against the windows, mind wandering elsewhere.

Eventually, Tachibana planted his palms softly on the wood of the counter and glanced up at Haruka’s distant face. His lips stretched out from side to side, but he did not tear the other man from his reverie, instead pulling the cloth back over the canvas with care and returning to his box of china and ingredients.

Several more minutes passed in verbal silence, the weather outside a soft soundtrack. Haruka broke the stillness first, a sneeze exploding from him that made Tachibana flinch and nearly drop a plate.

“Crap...” Haruka murmured, wiping his arm over his nose with a displeased wrinkle in between his brows.

Tachibana clicked his tongue. “You need to dry your hair or you’ll get sick for sure.”

“It’s fine,” Haruka replied instinctively. He never bothered to put any more thought into his hair than a few rubs with a towel post-bath, after all, so he was used to it being damp. Tachibana seemed unconvinced, however. With another look at those chamoisee coloured locks, Haruka deducted that this guy was probably the kind to put a lot of time into his own hairdo. Blow-dryer and everything. It still looked soft, though, and probably smelled even better.

“We have towels in the back, want me to fetch one for you?” he raised an eyebrow, condescending in a weirdly non-offensive way.

“It’s _fine_ , really,” he insisted, but his body betrayed him by jerking forward in a second sneeze as if to prove the brunet’s point. They sighed in sync—for different reasons.

“I’ll dry it for you,” Tachibana offered, scurrying off to get that towel, “As much as I’d welcome your betterment of our pastries, I don’t think phlegm is very appreciated as icing.”

“Ew.” was all Haruka could retort with.

Tachibana returned with a dark-blue hand towel and an amused grin. Haruka shook his head as he approached, lifting a warning index finger.

“Oh come on,” Tachibana’s shoulders slumped, “You’ll miss classes if you get sick. You’ll miss that exhibition.”

“Good. I’ll get someone to deliver my piece while I stay home. I never liked those social events anyway.”

“Nanase- _san_.” Tachibana said sternly, but the atmosphere remained frivolous, somehow. When the added honorific did nothing to persuade Haruka, the brunet sat down with a defeated huff. Haruka squared his shoulders in obstinacy. “…Tell you what,” Tachibana began softly, “We’ll play for it, hm? I win, I get you to dry your hair; you win, I’ll stop fussing, all right?”

Haruka’s eyes were reduced to reluctant slits and his arms crossed over his chest. After a moment’s hesitation, he asked, “What are we playing?”

Tachibana shrugged. “Uh, I don’t know… Arm wrestling? Cards? Something like that.”

Haruka glanced at the barista’s biceps, accentuated by the thin fabric of his sweater, and swallowed thickly. “A card game sounds good.”

“Great!” the man shot up from his seat beside Haruka, clasping his hands. Then, his face sunk with realisation. “Oh, I don’t have a deck of cards with me, though.”

Haruka clicked his tongue in faux disappointment. “Guess that settles it then.”

Tachibana shook his head and brushed his knuckles against Haruka’s upper arm softly, the most careful little punch the latter had ever received. Yet, despite the close to non-existent contact, chills spread from his arm across the rest of his body in an unexpected torrent. Haruka bit his lips in between his teeth.

“Well, I should finish this…” Tachibana mumbled to himself, passing through the small opening in the middle of the counter to return to his box.

Haruka thought for a moment before standing up and walking up beside him, their arms grazing briefly. “I’ll help.”

“Oh,” Tachibana breathed quietly, “You don’t have to.”

“Shush. You already refused to let me mop the floor.”

Accompanying the meek hit of Tachibana’s fist from earlier quite nicely, a laugh escaped the taller man beside Haruka, it possibly being the gentlest sound he had ever encountered. Haruka’s hands trembled somewhat as he lifted a bag of herbal tea from the cardboard box.

“Does, um,” Haruka began, wanting to get Tachibana talking again so that he’d have something to focus on besides the man’s general presence, “Does the blond guy still work here? The short one.”

“You mean Nagisa?” the brunet asked, turning at the stacks of glasses beside the cash register into a more symmetrical alignment, “Or, I guess, Hazuki? Yeah, it’s just him and me.”

“Ah,” Haruka said, looking around for the correct destination of the tea, “Not the glasses one?”

“He got a job elsewhere, but he comes in every now and then when we need extra help, or when one of us can’t make it.”

“I see,” Haruka wrinkled his eyebrows, cobalt orbs still searching the workspace for any other bags of tea. “I liked him. He didn’t try to chat besides repeating the order. And his handwriting was really neat.”

Tachibana laughed again, before coming up beside Haruka and pointing to a row of white, plastic jars with labels such as _Earl Grey, Mango, Chai_ and _Macha_. Walking over to them, he fished out one from the inner row with _Rooibos_ scribbled messily in red ink and popped the lid open, offering it to Haruka.

“That must have been nice, what with you always coming here to study and all. I’m sorry for Nagisa.” Tachibana snickered the last sentence, turning back toward the box.

Haruka ripped the tea bag open and poured the contents into the _Rooibos_ jar. “Mm,” he hummed, “He talked a lot.”

“Talks. Present tense,” Tachibana’s raised eyebrows could be heard in his tone. “He’s usually very appreciated among our customers, though. They think he has a sunny personality, which I’ll have to agree with. If the sun is fifty percent mischief, that is.”

Haruka huffed in amusement. “He was nice,” he offered quietly, “It was bothersome at first, but… I warmed up to him, I guess.”

“That’s the sun for you.”

“Yeah.” Haruka closed the lid on the jar, dropping it back into its place behind the _Chai_ one. He turned and walked back to the box, which by now was mostly empty. He grabbed the few tea infusers shaped like leaves and transferred them to the little glass bowl beside the teas. “You were kind of sunny too, though, you know.” he then continued, voice cautious.

Tachibana did not reply right away, and Haruka could not see if he was showing any visible reactions to that statement what with his back turned, but once the man spoke, his tone was light. “You think so? Even though I tend to talk a lot too?” a chuckle escaped him like a delighted afterthought.

“On a scale from Nagisa to Glasses, I think you were—are—somewhere in between. It was fine.”

Tachibana laughed again, fully this time.

“Hey, Nanase,” he mused, causing Haruka to turn back around. “I thought of a new game.”

Haruka blinked silently as Tachibana threw a grin over his shoulder.

“Nagisa told me once that you’re into cooking.”

“…Yeah, so?”

“He even said you considered culinary school, if I remember correctly. So how about this: I’ll let you taste one of our new pralines without telling you what kind it is, and you have to guess the ingredients.”

Haruka scoffed, folding his arms with incredulity etched onto his face. “What kind of a game is that?”

“Well,” Tachibana tipped his head to the side, “Actually, we kind of need to try them out to see if they’re any good, but Nagisa and I are both biased chocolate-lovers. So.”

They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment, Haruka contemplating the challenge. Rainwater was still dripping from the back of his head beneath the collar, providing a narrow lake down the valley between his shoulder blades. He still didn’t think it a problem, however, but found the persistent mothering on Tachibana’s end inexplicably endearing. If it’d satisfy the man, then sure. Although, Haruka was rather confident in his knowledge of gastronomy, and doubted that Tachibana would get his way.

He allowed one of the corners of his mouth to curve upwards slightly, cheekiness on full display. “Sure.”

Tachibana offered a smirk of his own and motioned for Haruka to sit down by the counter once more. Haruka did as suggested, arms still crossed haughtily as he planted himself on the seat. Tachibana tapped the corners of his eyes and closed them briefly, signalling for Haruka to do the same. The black-haired man did so, letting out a little sigh as his vision went dark.

He could hear Tachibana cutting off a piece of tape with a scissor and opening the lid of another carton box, before walking up adjacent to Haruka, the counter separating them.

“Open your mouth,” Tachibana murmured, and Haruka complied. He felt the tiny chocolate ball being placed in between his front teeth and shut his lips, biting down on the praline and tasting a liquid filling on his tongue.

Opening his eyes again, he gazed right into the greens of Tachibana, who was leaning his elbows on the counter and watching Haruka expectantly.

“Belgian chocolate fondants,” Haruka managed after chewing for a moment or two, “Syrup filling and, mmh…” he swallowed, concentrating on the lingering sweetness on his taste buds, “Some type of nut.”

Tachibana nodded, looking impressed. “Specifics, please.”

Haruka licked his lips and looked down. “Hazelnuts.”

“Yep. But there’s one more thing.”

A pause. “No, that’s it.” Sapphire orbs flickered up again. “If there was more, the tastes would overwhelm each other. I didn’t taste anything else.”

Tachibana released a sly chuckle, reaching out for the towel. “You should have gone to culinary school, Nanase. It would have granted you your much wanted soaked hair, but alas,” Tachibana sighed dramatically, making a show of sliding the towel through his digits, “It was decorated with a little marzipan bow. Pink and red. Too bad.”

“Marzipan…” Haruka’s shoulders sunk in despondency from his failure, before he glared up at Tachibana’s triumphant beam. “It must have been really, _really_ small.”

“Yeah, well,” Tachibana cocked his head sideways. “Guess that settles it, then.”

Haruka pushed his lips out, forehead creasing. “That’s unfair. You wouldn’t have made it yourself, I bet.”

“It’s not about me, see, my hair is dry,” Tachibana pulled at his bangs to prove his point. “Come on now, don’t be a sore loser.”

“…All right. I’ve got a deal for you,” Haruka proclaimed firmly, standing up from his chair and rounding the counter. He grabbed Tachibana by the front of his shirt, eliciting a sharp intake of air followed by a bubbly laugh from the man, as he was pushed down on one of the barstools. “Same rules. I’ll choose one of your pralines and you have to tell me which one it is without looking.”

Tachibana’s laugh resonated a tad louder. “You really want to get yourself sick that badly?”

 _Not at all_ , Haruka thought, _I want to play more games_. “I want it to be fair.”

Tachibana shook his head in amused disbelief, but let his eyes slip closed nevertheless. Walking up to the pastry display case, Haruka chose one of the not-so expensive chocolates out of consideration and returned to the counter where the other man sat.

He watched him for a second, how his lightly coloured eyelashes rested against his cheeks, how his smile gradually relaxed, and how he repositioned himself a bit in the chair once he became impatient. “Open your mouth.” Haruka whispered, and Tachibana did as told without hesitation.

Leaning in, Haruka brushed the chocolate against Tachibana’s bottom lip, before placing it gracefully on his tongue. His fingertips rested on that lip then, making Tachibana open his eyes in question. Haruka inhaled, exhaled slowly, removed his fingers and met the other’s gaze, allowing him to finally close his mouth and eat the praline.

Tachibana chewed slowly, watching Haruka with unshakeable wonderment. Haruka did not move from his position of half-lying across the counter, their faces mere inches apart. Tachibana did not seem alarmed by their proximity, but simply chewed the sweet until it was all gone, still gazing at Haruka intently.

“That’s… intriguing.”

Haruka quirked an eyebrow.

“It’s familiar. Ah. A familiar taste. But…” he trailed off, eyes flickering downwards for a brief second, and then up again, green meeting blue, “I think I need another try.”

“And _I_ think,” Haruka countered faintly, “That’s cheating. But… Okay.” He licked his fingers, eyes still locked with Tachibana’s, who took a long breath at the sight. “I got chocolate on them.” he explained quietly, before tapping one of the corners of his eyes. Tachibana closed his own once again.

Haruka walked back to the pastries, plucking another praline from the shelf. His insides squirmed with sudden bouts of nervousness as he raised it to his own lips. “I don’t want to get dirty again.”

Tachibana cracked an eye open, the other one following its lead as they both blew wide. The apples of his cheeks tinged crimson like the bow of the _marzipan_ -clad praline and he reached a tentative hand out as the man returned to him, making to pick the little sweet from his mouth. Haruka craned his neck backwards.

“You’ll get dirty, too.”

Tachibana said nothing. His hand stayed halfway to Haruka’s face for at least a hundred years, shaking faintly with nerves. Then, it dropped to his lap, and he, too, leaned across the counter, eyes flaring to and from those in front of him.

“Eyes closed.” the artist reminded.

With a dry gulp, Tachibana once again obeyed, parting his lips and allowing Haruka to close the last of the distance in between them. Haruka was suddenly overly aware of his breathing, and the heat of his face could probably cause a forest fire, but he tilted forward nonetheless. The tip of the praline came into contact with Tachibana’s lips, and he bit down softly around it. Neither of them pulled their lips back, and as the praline passed from one to the other, Haruka could feel the texture of the other’s mouth grace his own ever so vaguely. His own assertiveness shocked him to the core, freezing him in place like shackles keeping him from colliding with the brunet’s lips thoroughly.

A cut-off hum escaped the barista and he pressed forward with trepidation, sucking the praline into his own mouth through a bashful press of lips. It was only halfway to a real kiss, but still like a taste of pure ecstasy.

Haruka’s eyes slipped close as Tachibana began to chew, breathing out through his nose against the other’s face.

“Mint truffle.” the barista whispered. Haruka nodded wordlessly, tongue darting out to lick his lips. “Say goodbye to wet ears, Haruka.”

In the end, a cold caught up with him anyhow, and the young artist was stuck in bed for a week with not much else to occupy his mind but his appalling boldness that rainy afternoon.

 ***

 He found himself back at the crime scene the moment his nose had stopped running, sinking into his regular booth by the window noiselessly. Tachibana was currently behind the cash register, which was the cause for Haruka’s quick turn at the door, fleeing to his observation post like a frightened deer instead of approaching to make his order.

He had forgotten his art assignment at home, thus having no real reason to be where he was. But others would disagree; a coffee shop was for drinking coffee and not studying, after all, so the purpose of his presence should have been on the menu board by the counter. Haruka glanced up at it with a faint sigh. He felt like he was wasting his time here.

Tachibana caught his eyes from across the room, looking a little shell-shocked at first, as if Haruka being there was such an unimaginable thing. Perhaps to him it was, considering the fact that after The Praline Incident (as Haruka had so extravagantly titled it in his head) he had not shown up again for nearly two weeks. Now that he thought about it, it must have sent quite the negative message. But then again, that night had been an unplanned visit, forced on Haruka by the rain. He had not been a regular before for half a year, so technically, he shouldn’t have been assumed to be so afterwards, either.

He sighed again, wishing he could placate his itchy mind.

Prompted by the welcoming—albeit starkly vacillating—smile directed at him from a certain barista, Haruka stood from his seat and walked over to the counter. Tachibana’s demeanour glowed a little more boldly from being approached.

“Welcome back,” he said, and it was as if nothing had happened, although Haruka knew that _too much_ had happened.

“One Caffè Americano, please.”

“Coming right up!” Tachibana trilled, turning toward the espresso machine. Haruka figured the man simply had the default hospitability required of a barista switched on, and that was why he could act so cheery despite everything. Haruka was merely a customer, after all.

He looked around the room, noting to himself that as per his memory, the shop was rather vacant at this hour. It was too late in the evening for most to crave coffee, save for a few other students in the same position as Haruka, who needed a serene location to study in. Haruka himself was never actually in demand for coffee other than during the early hours of the day, but would not hesitate to spend a few yen on a cup or two if it meant tranquillity. And even more so, the pleasure of seeing Tachibana, although Haruka would reject the off-chance of having to admit to it.

Before that pouring night two weeks ago, Haruka had barely spoken to him at all. Their conversations six months ago had consisted mostly of making and taking orders, with a few “Have a nice day”s and “Thanks, you too”s thrown in there. To Haruka, it was more than enough. He was too busy to actively seek out anything grander, although he couldn’t deny that the thought appealed to him. Ogling Tachibana from a distance was good enough as long as they kept on less-than-acquaintances terms, because Haruka wouldn’t know exactly what he was missing out on. As was his logic until lately, when he had exercised such brazen advances before he could even stop to think them through.

Tachibana had not shown any signs of thinking Haruka’s actions repugnant, however, but who knew how thick that untroubled façade he was so capable of was.

What goaded Haruka’s mind into its over-analytical state the most, however, was the knowledge that the more they got to know each other, the more he’d want. He was stuck in a rut there, knowing it might be a bad choice because relationships always came with baggage, but also not giving a damn because Tachibana was Tachibana. The sight of him alone was usually enough to render Haruka’s rationality to rubble. Although if anything, the Praline Incident had proven that Haruka was able to get the overhand as well, which was a revelation that shoved the choice of stagnation—or even reversion—right off the table.

“Hey, dude, you mind moving aside after you’ve placed your order?” a voice plucked him from his reverie, words like icicles probing him from behind.

“Sorry,” Haruka muttered, moving aside with a brief glance to the young man behind him. Sitting down on one of the barstools to await his coffee, Haruka watched with a light scowl as the man gave his order to Tachibana’s blond co-worker.

“You sitting up here with me today, Nanase-kun?” came Tachibana’s voice from beside him, and Haruka turned his head to find the barista holding out his Americano for him.

“…No,” Haruka dismissed his hopeful—or so Haruka deemed it—tease, choosing to be at least a little hard-to-get so as to redeem his dignity after practically jumping the barista the moment they shared a decent conversation. Whether he decided to pursue this or not, he would not act a fool. Well. _Anymore_.

Tachibana looked a little hurt, but it might have been an illusion for Haruka’s entertainment. “Aw,” he drew his eyebrows upwards as Haruka took the cup from his hands, pride evidently wounded, “In any case, enjoy your coffee!”

Haruka thanked him with a slight incline of his head, before retreating to his booth by the window. He sat down with a sigh, eyes gluing themselves to the widening expansion of amber across the sky. The sun was starting to descend, which meant the coffee shop would get progressively emptier until Haruka was left with no other option but to leave as well. This used to be his favourite part of the day (save for the nowadays rather rare instances he got to swim, of course.)

There was a playlist rolling endlessly in the little shop, the tunes of which were soothing and light-hearted. Haruka did not pay much attention to the lyrics of the songs, but he enjoyed their overall sound as they blanketed his surroundings.

The minutes drifted by, turning into a near half-hour. His drink was mostly gone, with only a thin layer of lukewarm liquid remaining at the bottom of the cup. Haruka peeked down into it with faint disdain; he never seemed to manage finishing his coffee.

Just then, a figure came up to him from the side, and Haruka raised his calm eyes to find Tachibana wiping his hands on a hand towel and looking out through the window with serenity lacing his features.

“It gets really pretty around this time of day, doesn’t it?” he mused quietly, and Haruka released a hum of agreement, blues darting back toward the fiery clouds outside.

“It does.”

“I can see why you choose to come around this time. The view is fantastic.” Tachibana said, before tapping the porcelain in between Haruka’s hands, “Should I take this?”

Haruka’s thumb ran across the white china absent-mindedly. “It’s fine. I’ll bring it to you when I leave.”

“So no refill?”

“No, thank you,” Haruka shook his head a little, “I won’t be able to sleep.”

Tachibana chuckled knowingly.

A few beats passed in silence before Haruka realised the man was still standing there, apparently set on continuing to do so for a while. Without breaking eye contact with the darkening heavens, he asked, “Do you want to sit down?”

“Oh.” Tachibana threw a contemplative look toward the counter, but Nagisa did not seem to be in any need of his assistance; the short blonde was currently leaning back on a chair, a magazine spread out in his lap. The coffee shop was especially quiet today. “Okay. Sure.”

Tachibana seated himself adjacent to Haruka, combing his fingers through his hair with a tired sigh. Haruka seldom minded silence, but for some reason, he felt an obligation to speak. It did not stem from Tachibana’s somewhat awkward presence, but more so his own nagging interest in the brunet.

“So, did you decide to display those pralines or not?”

Tachibana’s eyes became piercing, and the heat of his face radiated all the way across the table, possibly the culprit causing Haruka’s own face to flare with colour. “O-Oh. Ah. Well, y-yes, we did. They’ve been quite the success, too.”

Haruka let out a short grunt of acknowledgement.

“I got the feeling you enjoyed them, so…”

The dark-haired man’s gaze fell to the surface of the table, and he pondered whether that second meaning he detected in Tachibana’s words were merely a misjudgment or not. He swallowed slowly. “I did.”

The relief that shone in Tachibana’s jade eyes was indisputably real, however. But whether or not he was happy to hear Haruka did not regret their intimacy, or that the pralines they served were of Haruka’s taste, he could not tell. Tachibana seemed like the type to be merry about either. “That’s good,” he sighed, “I was. Um. A little worried, actually.”

Haruka’s brow creased. He still wasn’t sure. “Why were you… worried?”

Tachibana broke eye-contact with him, greens fleeting here and there in clear nervousness. “Well, I… I mean, I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t want, um…”

Haruka exhaled slowly, a fond smile making its way across his lips. “Tachibana.” he called out, causing the other’s stuttering to cease, “You can stop worrying now.”

A nod. “Yes… I guess so…”

Haruka looked behind Tachibana as the tiny bell above the front door jingled, drawing attention to the departure of the man who had stood behind Haruka at the cash register. As he examined the rest of the room, he realised he was the last remaining customer.

“Hey! Mako-chan,” the shorter of the two baristas called out from the counter, and Tachibana’s head snapped up, “There’s only like ten minutes left before closing time and I don’t think any more people are gonna come in, so I’ll start cleaning up, okay?”

“Oh, sure,” Tachibana nodded, making to stand up when Nagisa lifted a dismissive hand from the other side of the room.

“It’s fine, I got it!” he hurriedly assured, slyness etched onto his face. Haruka looked between the two of them in puzzlement, but Tachibana had a certain knowing written all over him that made him fiddle a bit with the edge of his apron.

“Maybe I should leave,” Haruka offered softly, not letting his slight disappointment seep into his voice.

Tachibana was quick to don a smile, shaking his head at Haruka’s assumption. “Oh no, it’s okay. Like he said, we don’t actually close for another ten minutes or so, anyway.”

“…Alright then,” Haruka pushed his cup further away, making room on the table for his folded arms as he stared ahead at Tachibana.

“You sure you don’t want anything else before we close up, though?” Tachibana asked, cocking his head toward Nagisa who was currently packing up supplies Haruka could not make out from where he sat.

 _Yes, but it’s not on the menu,_ he thought, torn between allowing himself a complacent grin or rolling his eyes at his own ridiculousness. “I’m sure.” he confirmed, once again struck by the unquenched wanton to spark a durable conversation. Although the one they had held a couple of weeks ago could be considered shallow, Haruka had enjoyed it. Tachibana’s company was cosy, one might say, and he had a way of rendering trivial matters sufficient enough to keep a person’s interest. At least that was how Haruka had perceived him, but it might have just been the spark of finally speaking with the barista fully that kept his attention upright.

Nevertheless, Haruka realised he wanted to get to know him, which was something he scarcely experienced, truth be told.

“Tachibana…” he began, but the brunet was quick to correct him, even with a hint of indetermination.

“Ah, just ‘Makoto’ is fine.”

Haruka blinked at him a few times, spelling the name in his head and scrutinising the suggestion of advancing to that basis so soon. Haruka knew that once they did, stagnation and reversion would truly be gone from the table. Yet, in the end, his conclusion was as such: despite how safe he knew them to be, the loss of them was a much more exhilarating option. Baggage tended to have handles that facilitated the travel with it, after all.

“Okay.” he complied, allowing a humble smile onto his own lips.

“And… You’re Haruka, then?”

The artist sucked in a puff of air through his nose, feeling as if he just hit a bump in the road. His name, which he usually had a deep-seated distaste for, sounded good rolling off of Makoto’s tongue. Perhaps even _too_ good. “Just Haru.”

Makoto nodded in understanding. “Haru,” he tested, biting his bottom lip momentarily, and coincidentally making something inside Haruka’s chest jolt in an eccentrically enjoyable fashion. “You were saying something?”

 _Oh, right_. Haruka raked his mind for any doable conversation starters, but unfortunately, the amount in his repertoire was downright pitiful. He went for something simple, in the end, asking Makoto whether or not he was or had been in university, while simultaneously hoping he did not step on any toes. Much to his relief, it sparked a little explanation that brought up further questions in his mind. Before they knew it, Nagisa was gone and they were ploughing through more topics than there were coffee drinks on the menu board. The city outside was nothing but a dully lit street, the rest of the world’s details smudged by the darkness of dusk. It was Makoto who first realised how late it was, when both of their stomachs began to growl viciously, having been denied dinner. Still they were unhurried in their goodbyes, and Haruka spent his entire walk home replaying the words spilled from Makoto’s mouth. Makoto himself was grinning like an idiot, perplexed and astounded at the other man’s ability to say so much and stay so fascinating despite such an absence of speech.

They both found it hard to sleep that night, and met again in the morrow with matching bags under their eyes. They escaped their sleepiness with several cups of black each, and ended up with a near replica of the night before. This went on every now and then, and eventually it became easier to find rest after each time, although the butterflies in their guts continued to bat their wings with reckless abandon.

Haruka was frightened in a way he had never been before, the concept of opening up to someone with such ease a wholly foreign one to him. But he could not wish the fear to go away, as it held the same undercurrent of adrenaline as when riding a roller coaster or watching a horror flick; neither of those appealed much to Haruka himself, but the convulsion was still there. He trusted the unknown territory to be worth treading, because he trusted _Makoto_. There was no harm in befriending him (or more), surely; his mother had told him a lot as a child to not be so reserved. To trust in others more. Though it was still a hallmark move of him not to do so, for once he wanted to.

Makoto was a bit like swimming, he’d found. There was fun and there was comfort, a push and a pull, but simultaneously the allowance and expectation for Haruka to move on his own accord.

Plus, on a completely different note, he’d be lying if he said the man’s looks alone did not drive him insane. Or at least, drive him beneath the covers of his own bed, one hand clasped over his mouth, one clasped _elsewhere_ , and the memory fresh in his head of a twinkle in Makoto’s eye or a brush of his hand against Haruka’s hip as he ushered him to the door.

 ***

“You’re not in your regular spot today?” the barista grinned at Haruka as he came up in front of him, wiping the inside of a glass with a towel. Haruka slumped a little where he sat on the barstool, tapping his pencil once against his notebook.

“It was taken…” he muttered, leaving the part where he got butterflies at getting to sit closer to Makoto out.

“Ah,” the brunet glanced past Haruka at the thieves; a boy and a girl about their age, sharing a banana milkshake with two straws. A small chuckle escaped Makoto before his gaze travelled back to Haruka, who was leaning his head on his palm, the other occupied twiddling the pencil between his fingers.

“You writing something?”

Haruka shook his head. “Brainstorming. We got a new art assignment yesterday.”

“What is it?” Makoto put the glass down and folded his arms over the counter, “I’m no artist, but I might be able to help somehow.”

Haruka traced the shape of an eight with his pencil, following the infinite route over and over again a few times before answering. “She wants us to be creative.”

Makoto did not answer right away; he stared at Haruka’s pencil going in circles, feeling as if he had missed out on something. “Creative…” he repeated, not noticing Nagisa passing them with a mop and bucket only to stop halfway to snap up their discussion, “Isn’t that… Kind of what you’re _always_ doing?”

Haruka drew a line away from the eight, zig-zagging down along the edge of the page. “Creative in our production. No paper or canvas.” A sigh. “She wants us to think outside the box, she says.”

“Make a sculpture!” Nagisa chimed in, poking the tip of the mop’s handle against Haruka’s head. “Or a wax figure!”

“Oh, yeah! That sounds fun,” Makoto smiled, picking the pencil up as the struggling artist before him put it down with a grunt. Biting his lip in thought for a moment, Makoto opted to draw a little smiley face at the corner of the page.

“I guess.” Haruka muttered. “That’s still pretty basic though.”

“Maybe…” Nagisa stroked his chin, “Well, what are the others gonna do?”

Haruka shrugged, watching in entertainment as Makoto added spiky hair to the smiley. “I don’t, um. I don’t really speak much with the others. But I think one was doing something with glass. And this one girl was going to draw on herself.”

“That’s interesting,” Makoto mused, adding a speech bubble next to his stick figure with ‘You can do it!’ written inside.

“Ooh, you should draw on a person too!” Nagisa tapped Haruka’s head with the mop again, earning a brief frown sent his way. “You should draw on Mako-chan! His back is about as wide as a canvas, after all.”

Makoto made a sudden halt in drawing the waving hand of the little man, causing the thumb to become bent abnormally. “ _Nagisa_ ,” he released an awkward chuckle.

Haruka let out a breath of laughter himself, but then paused. Eyes creeping from Nagisa to Makoto, he inspected the man’s upper body as thoroughly as possible with his shirt still on. “Actually…”

“Haru!” Makoto interrupted, wide smaragdines aimed pointedly at Haruka, who let his stare remain south of Makoto’s face. Once he looked up, he couldn’t help but smirk at the wonderful warmth that was visible on the other’s cheeks. Haruka’s smile did not seem to help with his flustered state. “I—There’s… There’s a… Line…” Makoto pointed toward the register, blinking his large eyes at Haruka, who simply cocked his head to the side and intertwined his fingers beneath his chin.

While Makoto was taking the orders of the two new customers, Haruka took some time to observe the little drawing he had left in the artist’s notebook. It might as well have been made by an eight year old, Haruka mused internally, flipping the page to start brainstorming the actual motif of his painting. He found himself exceptionally intrigued by the suggestion made by Nagisa, and hoped he could manage to persuade Makoto into feeling the same. Not only did the thought of Makoto’s bare body appeal to him, but so did the concept of expressing himself artistically upon a living, breathing canvas. One with warmth, inconsistency and protuberances. His mind no longer felt barren and empty of ideas, but more so overwhelmed with the possibilities. Even more fascinating was the fact that it would not be a permanent piece; it’d be ephemeral, but possibly more alive than any of his previous works.

“You can sit down while you wait,” he heard Makoto tell the two men in a cheery tone, but as he looked closer, he could tell the barista was still somewhat unsteady at hand as he prepared their drinks and sandwiches.

Haruka snorted.

“Are you always this shy about taking your shirt off?” he inquired lowly as Makoto passed him with the customers’ orders. He stopped abruptly and met Haruka’s eyes, blue glimmering with amusement.

“Not… Not _always_ , but you’re, I mean, you…” His mouth remained open, but no further clarification made its way off his tongue.

Haruka bit his bottom lip. “Don’t dawdle. Their coffee will get cold.”

“I. Right.” Makoto took a harsh breath and walked off, not noticing the ‘Caution: Wet Floor’ sign that Nagisa had put out after mopping. He slipped on the newly cleaned surface but regained his footing immediately. The rough wobble was enough to send one of the cups flying, however, a scorching blanket of espresso slapping against the table between the two men. Makoto yelped loudly, and the customers both flew up from their seats, luckily avoiding the unintentional coffee assault.

Haruka did not turn to see the event take place, but froze at the sounds of it, and breathed out a soft sigh of relief at the “No harm done” and “Don’t worry about it” that followed Makoto’s panicked apologies.

Nagisa abandoned the mop where he stood on the inside of the counter to grab a wash cloth and toss it over to Makoto with a sheepish, albeit slightly entertained, “Sorry, Mako-chan! I thought I’d take the time to clean while the shop was mostly empty…”

“Really, I’m… _so_ sorry! I should really look where I’m going, huh? Ah… I—I’ll make you a new cup right away!” Makoto went on, evidently ignoring his co-worker. With hurried—yet _cautious_ —steps, he made his way back past the counter, only to be caught off guard once more by the wetness of the floorboards. As if on an ice rink in shoes instead of skates, he fell backwards, landing on his butt right in front of Haruka, whose hand quickly flew up to cover his mouth in order not to laugh out loud. Nagisa made no such attempt.

“Ma—Mako-chan!” he managed in between bouts of hysterical laughter, “Are you okay?!”

Makoto grunted from where he lay on the floor and slung a hand up over the countertop. After the gripping hand came an arm and an annoyed pair of eyes, peeking up with a scowl that could have burnt right through the mahogany. Biting his lip behind the palm still concealing it, Haruka’s body started to shake a little with laughter. The cross countenance was hard to take seriously in combination with the red tinging Makoto’s entire face from embarrassment, and soon became too much for Haruka. His hand fell away as a short, ebullient laugh tore from him, eyes closed and head tilting downwards instinctively. When he looked up again, the wrinkles in Makoto’s brow were all smoothed out, his jaw slack in awe instead, and the apples of his cheeks darkened tenfold like an actual pair of apples.

Makoto promptly decided he simply _had_ to make Haruka laugh again.

 ***

Following the artist with cautious steps into the work studio of his university, Makoto noted to himself the impressive size of the room. It was adorned with equally colossal windows and thick curtains, presumably to provide both natural lighting and the possibility to shield the students from external disturbances. The room had several tables with groups of chairs around them, as well as easels, sinks, an immeasurable amount of cabinets, and tracing tables. They were the only ones there, and the room was poorly lit, due to it being early in the morning before school hours or work shifts. Haruka had explained to him that as an enrolled student, he had the privilege of borrowing the room’s key to work on projects that required solitude. This advantage was one well used by Haruka, to say the least.

Haruka flicked the light switch and walked briskly over to one of the chairs, spinning it around and motioning for Makoto to take his seat by the table, on which art supplies had already been laid out. Sitting down with his arms folded over the backrest, Makoto’s nerves began to really stir within him. As he had attempted to explain to Haruka earlier, when his tongue decided that being figuratively tied would be a much better option, he wasn’t _entirely_ unused to taking his shirt off among people. He had been a swimmer in middle school and high school, after all. But it was the knowledge that Haruka would be staring at his naked back for who knew how long, working his brilliance upon it, that made him nervous.

Haruka tugged at his shirt from behind. “If you’re uncomfortable with this, we don’t have to do it.”

Makoto shook his head. He wasn’t so much uncomfortable as he was embarrassed, and if he backed out now, Haruka would have to hurry and find some other form of creative production. “It’s okay. I’m just a little nervous, I suppose.”

Haruka pulled up a chair behind him, seating himself as well and leaning in close to Makoto’s ear, hand heavy on his shoulder. “Artists don’t study their _canvases_ , Makoto.”

The brunet released an unsteady breath. “I know, I know…” he shook his head, “Ah, should I take my shirt off, then?”

“Unless you want me to paint on your t-shirt, yes.”

“Right.” He laughed breathily, sitting up straight to tug the hem of his shirt over his head. He cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly and sat back, unknowing of the fervent gaze he was receiving from behind.

 _Doesn’t mean they can’t, though,_ Haruka thought to himself.

Reaching forward to take his palette and squirt the paint onto it, Haruka began to assess what colours would complement the slight tan of Makoto’s skin, and whether or not he could leave it blank in some places for effect. He experimentally planted his palm flat against the other’s spine, stroking his hand downwards for no real reason at all. Makoto let out a hum. Or a faint moan—Haruka wasn’t quite listening.

“Haru?” he called out weakly, and Haruka’s voice dropped to a near-whisper as he replied.

“I need to… get to know the material I’m working with.” he explained, hand lifting to trail only his fingertips across the barista’s skin. He followed the vague outlines of muscle, pressed down on his shoulder blades, feeling his own skin melt like icing beneath the sun at the sight and the touch. Makoto was warm, too. It was a pleasant feeling against his curious hand.

Makoto leaned his head on his arms as Haruka’s hand travelled down to his waist, squeezing gently around the side. A hint of a smile donned Haruka’s lips at how evidently Makoto was enjoying the spontaneous massage.

He put the palette back down on the table gingerly, using both hands to fully caress and press down on the other’s back. He raked his hands across the expanse of it in wide circles, adoring the softness over solid musculature. Then, his palms journeyed farther north, grasping the space between his shoulders and neck, thumbs adding pressure to a knot or two hiding beneath that flesh. Makoto flinched briefly, before an unabashed groan flew from his lips. His hand instantly slapped over his own mouth, and Haruka smirked, rubbing forceful spirals with his thumbs.

“Ah… You need your canvas completely flat, too?” Makoto teased, and Haruka figured he should have been ashamed at the indirect accusation, but, incidentally, he couldn’t quite say he was.

“I don’t want you to tense up, is all,” he explained quietly, and clasped the strained area with his palms. Makoto captured his bottom lip in between teeth, but the remnants of a moan escaped him despite the effort. “You’ve been over-working yourself.”

“I didn’t even know… ah… that I was sore there,” Makoto rolled his head forward, and his neck made a low cracking noise. “Ouch.”

“Lay your head down again.” Haruka ordered, and Makoto did as told. Standing up for better access, Haruka worked the knots in his shoulders for a while, until it seemed like Makoto was beginning to drift off below him. It was rather early, after all, and his body really seemed to crave some stimulus.

In an attempt to stop the man from dozing off, Haruka shook his shoulder gently. No visual response came, however, and so he reached his hand down and pinched Makoto’s side. The brunet jerked up immediately, giving a high-pitched little yelp.

“I’m awake!” he was quick to announce, and Haruka sat down on his chair again.

“I’m going to start painting on you now,” he informed, once again lifting the palette from the table, as well as a broad brush. “It’s a type of body paint, so it won’t take as long to dry as oil, which is what I usually use,” he dipped the brush in the Duke Blue blob, “And it’ll wash off with some water and soap.”

“Oka— _ah_! Whoa, that’s a little cold,” Makoto laughed as Haruka pressed the brush against a knob of his spine, dragging it downwards to create a tapering blue stroke.

“Sorry,” was all the consolation he could offer, at which Makoto released yet another chuckle.

Haruka painted for over two hours, despite having chosen not to cover all of Makoto’s back; he created an ocean floor over the barista’s tailbone, the water filling all of his lower back and half of the space between his shoulder blades. For good measure, Haruka painted the lower halves of his arms as well, aligning the ocean surface despite the gaps between his abdomen and arms. With the illusion of the blades overlapping the sea, he made a trail of blue down from the back of Makoto’s hairline, as if the ocean originated from his head.

Haruka did not explain to him what he was creating as he went along, but Makoto’s patience remained intact by the adrenaline of his curiosity. Every brush stroke felt like a chilly caress, like Haruka was still touching him with his own hands, only covered with paint. He was smooth in his motions, and every detail added with a smaller brush tickled Makoto’s skin pleasantly.

Through the silence and his own unawareness of the painting’s progress, Makoto couldn’t help but find the event immaculately tender. No words were being exchanged, but a lot was being said. Makoto wasn’t quite sure how that could be. He was certain, however, that it was something he had never experienced before Haruka, who seemed prone to igniting a wide range of strange, new sensations within him. The man was intriguing, to say the least; as he sat with his mind no doubt completely lost in his artistry, Makoto’s own was a locomotive on the brink of overheating. All thanks to that peculiar artist behind him, who had not even uttered a sound. His presence alone was an intoxicating energy, seeping through Makoto’s skin via the paint brush.

Once he was done, he allowed Makoto to stand up and stretch a bit, as long as he did not touch his forearms or his back to anything.

“Is there a mirror somewhere so I can check it out?” the brunet asked once Haruka returned from having washed and stuffed away his supplies.

“Come with me.”

Makoto trailed after Haruka into a smaller room within the studio, where additional supplies and a closet of papers and canvases could be found. In the far corner of the small space stood a full-body mirror, and a lower one as well, beside it. Makoto walked up to it and turned around, seeing a somewhat twisted version of Haruka’s work as he craned his neck over his shoulder.

“Whoa…” he breathed out, turning back to Haruka with eyes blown huge like a child’s.

Haruka bent down to pick up the smaller mirror, and touched Makoto’s upper arm delicately to make him turn back toward the tall one. Holding up the other behind Makoto, he angled the mirror to give Makoto a view of the sea on his skin, one part at a time. The brunet’s jaw was nearly in collision with the floor.

“I’m a living masterpiece,” he joked, and Haruka’s face flushed despite these kinds of comments being nothing new to him.

He did not deny the statement, but neither did he clarify that he agreed simply because he thought Makoto above the likes of any expert work of art, whether or not the width of his back was a coral reef.

“The trickle from my neck,” he gestured towards said area, “Is it a symbol for something? Like… Is it coming from my mind, the sea?”

Haruka blinked at him for a moment. Truth be told, he never really thought too much about his work; it just came to him. He painted the ideas that spurted in his mind, sometimes far down the depth of incomprehension, sometimes sailing on the surface of it. “That’s up for you to decide, I guess.”

Makoto grinned. “Then, that’s what I think,” he said, looking Haruka in the eyes through the full-body mirror. Haruka’s eyes fell to the painting on Makoto’s back. “Although, I think it’s projection.”

“Projection?” Haruka echoed, brow furrowing as he reached a tentative hand to the drying colours on the other’s body.

“It feels like you,” he proclaimed, voice losing any teasing or frivolous tone it may have had earlier. His words were soft, fading soon after they left his lips. “You probably have an entire ocean in there.” Makoto turned around, tapping a fingertip against Haruka’s temple. The latter released a huff of feigned skepticism.

“What’s that supposed to mean…” he mumbled, it being more of a way to fill the blanks than an actual question. Makoto gave a hum of amusement.

“You know,” he raised his voice a little bit, changing the subject for the sake of Haruka’s comfort, “It seems like fun, drawing on people. Although if I tried it on you it’d probably end up a disaster.”

Haruka smiled at the floor. “I don’t know about that. You make magnificent stick figures.”

Makoto laughed ebulliently, remembering the little man of encouragement he had drawn in Haruka’s notebook. “Why, thank you! It’s my specialty.” he winked at the other, and had it not been entirely playful, Haruka’s heart might have malfunctioned. “If you want, I’ll return the favour of this excellence and draw a little man on you.”

A short laugh burst from Haruka, and he shook his head in disbelief, but couldn’t help but accept the phenomenal offer. “Okay.”

Makoto felt his knees go weak at the sound of Haruka laughing once again, and he breathed in deeply, his smile widening to twice its size.

Since he had already packed the body paint and brushes away, Haruka picked up a black marker instead. He made sure it was not permanent before handing it to Makoto.

Makoto gave a few waves with the pen. “Aw, I don’t get to use as professional equipment as you did?”

“You don’t need it with your level of skill.” Haruka deadpanned, eliciting a snort from the barista.

“That _is_ true,” he said sarcastically, before beginning to roll up the sleeve of Haruka’s shirt. The dark-haired man helped hold it up as Makoto’s fingers encircled his arm right above the elbow, the strong grasp erecting goose bumps on Haruka’s skin that he wished Makoto would not see.

Makoto opted to actually do his best with this little guy, and decided halfway through to turn it into a portrait of the art student himself. He filled in the hair with black and drew a straight line for a mouth. Stick-figure Haruka also held a massive paintbrush in one hand, and a coffee cup in his other. To make the quality even more cutesy, Makoto drew a fish pattern on his shirt to the best of his ability, but as the marker was rather thick, it came out looking like badly produced polka dots instead.

Haruka kept his lips squeezed in between his teeth as he watched the wrinkle of concentration in between Makoto’s eyebrows. Every now and then he’d sneak a peek at the piece of art coming to life on his arm, but his eyes continued to travel back to the brunet who looked to be putting every ounce of focus that existed inside of him to create this little man. Haruka felt warm inside, watching him.

“Done!” Makoto announced proudly with a nod of his head, putting the cork back on the marker and letting go of Haruka’s arm.

Reluctantly, Haruka turned to the mirror behind him to view the replica of himself from a not-upside-down perspective. The moment he did, a series of sharp exhales of amusement tumbled from him, before he cracked up thoroughly, laughing so hard he had to squeeze his eyes shut.

Makoto couldn’t help but be affected, joining in all the while feeling wonderfully enraptured by the tickled joy on Haruka’s face.

Haruka covered his mouth with his hand until the laughter began to die out, although it returned in short spurts even after he had wiped the tears donning the edges of his eyes and rolled his sleeve back down. He squeezed his own arm over the fabric, raising his eyes to Makoto while still smiling helplessly. “It’s… It’s beautiful, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” Makoto ran a hand through his hair and sighed, “I couldn’t quite capture your smile though, so I went for a more casual look.”

“No, I was impressed,” he shook his head with closed eyes, mimicking Makoto with a sigh of his own.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Makoto took a step closer, brushing his fingers over Haruka’s sleeve where he knew the portrait to be. “You… You have a really pretty laugh, you know.”

Haruka could feel himself go ice cold, only to have his insides coiled with flames again a second later. The heat spread to his face, his cheeks assuming a rosy shade, much alike parts of the corals on Makoto’s back. His gaze was drawn to the ground shyly. “It’s just a laugh…” he murmured.

Makoto did not answer, but his words hung predictably in the air between them: _No, it’s_ Haru’s _laugh_. Haruka reached for the hand still on his bicep, clasping Makoto’s wrist as if having to steady himself. _That’s not a valid argument, you idiot…_

“I…” Haruka began, now staring at their hands hanging between them, his grip around the faint batting of Makoto’s pulse rather than their fingers intertwined. He found himself too bashful to change that, though, which was a bit unlike him. “Thank you, though… For helping me with my assignment. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it,” Makoto dismissed humbly, “It was interesting, actually. You should tell me if you ever need another human canvas.”

Haruka forced himself to look up, feeling silly for avoiding those kind greens of Makoto’s. “Okay.” he answered simply, before the sound of the studio door being unlocked reached their ears. Haruka’s eyes flickered over to the clock on the wall, which pointed to 8:17; class had officially begun two minutes ago. When he looked back to Makoto, the man’s face was flushed darkly, as he had just realised for the first time that he would be displayed shirtless to a roomful of strangers, in addition to Haruka.

 ***

Makoto returned home after Haruka’s art class, unwilling to wash the deep blue from his back, but knowing it had to be done before he went to work. Nagisa had assured him he’d do fine on his own if only for a few hours, but Makoto had insisted he’d be back around twelve, as he did not want to let his personal matters become a bother for his co-worker. The blonde had been oddly keen on letting Makoto off, however, which the latter found a bit dubious. But Nagisa had been the one to suggest Haruka use Makoto’s body for his assignment in the first place, so perhaps the man was simply proud of knowing his idea was being explored. Either way, Makoto was grateful.

He attempted to take a few photos of the body art through the mirror before it was to be erased, sending a picture to Haruka, with whom he had exchanged emails earlier that day. The motivation had consisted of several semi-legitimate statements, such as, “In case you can’t get it off your skin and start to panic” and “Yeah, or, I mean, if you ever want to do this again,” both of them a transparent overlay to the real reason: they simply wanted to.

Makoto couldn’t quite say why it was apparently necessary for them to tip-toe around it, but he found their games thrilling, somehow.

When he got out of the shower, Haruka had already replied to his “i thought you might want it saved ^^” by complaining that Makoto was ruining the beauty of its short lifespan. Makoto panicked a little, fearing he might have aggravated the artist for real, and sent back his apologies with more exclamation marks than was probably needed.

[11:42] Nanase Haruka: I was half-kidding. Don’t worry.

[11:45] Tachibana Makoto: …oh. hehe.

[11:52] Nanase Haruka: My professor really liked it, so it might be worth saving. Thanks.

[11:58] Tachibana Makoto: i figured that might be the case!! i also want to save it for myself, it was so cool!

[12:00] Nanase Haruka: Thanks also for basically sending me nudes.

[12:03] Tachibana Makoto: haru!!!!!! It was just my back!!! (/o \ *)

[12:05] Nanase Haruka: You have a nice back.

[12:10] Tachibana Makoto: shouldn’t you be in class right now! ////

[12:13] Nanase Haruka: I am. My professor is giving a very boring presentation about things I already know, so I’m using my time getting revenge instead.

[12:14] Tachibana Makoto: revenge? …for what i said about your laugh?

[12:18] Nanase Haruka: …

[12:19] Tachibana Makoto: oh. omg… i guess i deserve it then.

[12:20] Nanase Haruka: You do.

[12:23] Tachibana Makoto: well! sorry for stating a fact!

[12:26] Nanase Haruka: Stop that… Shouldn’t you be at work?

[12:27] Tachibana Makoto: …! oh my god!!

[12:28] Nanase Haruka: Idiot. See you after classes.

 ***

As per usual, soft acoustic served as a backdrop for the noise—or lack thereof—in the coffee shop. Haruka and Makoto were the only ones left, going on an hour past closing time. Makoto kept himself busy cleaning tables and humming along to the songs he had heard on repeat for weeks now without tiring. There wasn’t much time to really focus on the background music during work hours, after all, so it did not grow old.

Haruka sat at what one could probably label his new regular seat by the counter, the back of his pencil resting against his bottom lip as he inspected the work before him. Making the sketches for his art projects here had become somewhat of a habit lately, as he found the atmosphere—sugary scents, jazz or acoustic guitars, and Makoto’s tranquil presence—equally calming as that of his own quiet apartment. Here, however, he got free coffee and free interaction with the one person who didn’t seem to drain him at all. As an introvert, Haruka valued his alone time a lot, but Makoto always managed to be part of it rather than impose on it, somehow. In addition, Haruka found himself exceedingly inspired by the man, in ways he could not fathom.

“This one’s nice,” Makoto mumbled to himself as he rinsed and wrung the wash cloth over the sink, ticking his head back and forth in sync with the song. With a content sigh, he slid up in front of Haruka, leaning his side against the counter and watching the other man draw. “So’s this one,” he whispered through a smile, pointing to the scenery coming to life in monochrome at the tip of Haruka’s pencil.

The artist glanced up briefly and then down again, scrutinising his work with a careful eye. He knew what he wanted to accomplish, but felt as if something was missing. He’d have to give this one some thought, he concluded with a short hum.

Makoto tapped his fingers against the wooden counter absent-mindedly, following the flow of the song. As Haruka began to pick up on the melody, he drummed his pencil against the sketch book a few times, finishing Makoto’s beat for him. They fell into a routine, Makoto batting the lengths of his fingers down softly only to pause before the repetitive jingle of the song did as Haruka took over instead. After three or four runs his orbs flickered upward, catching Haruka’s in a frivolous lock. Both of their faces flourished with grins.

“You’re _musical_ too?” Makoto chuckled, giving up on their two-man orchestra to rest his chin in his hands.

“Too?”

“Sports, art, cooking…” the brunet listed, “Don’t tell me you can sing and dance, as well?”

“It’s _one_ sport,” Haruka quipped bashfully, “And no. Not to save my life.”

Makoto let out a hearty laugh, reaching a hand out to drag his fingertip along the spiral spine of Haruka’s drawing pad lazily. “You know, I actually took a dance course once on a dare. The waltz was all that stuck though; it’s a slow one.”

“My grandmother taught me that when I was a kid.”

“Really?” Makoto seemed to perk up, face like the gleam of a sun. “Then…” he lifted himself from his heavy posture over the counter, touching his own lip feathery in pensiveness for a second. He seemed to reach a conclusion, that sun turning scarlet from an emotion neither of them could pinpoint, and then he reached his hand out to Haruka.

“Uh…” was Haruka’s intelligent reply. He put his pencil down and closed the pad, but remained seated.

Makoto raised his eyes, and they raked over Haruka mercilessly. There was a glint of anticipation in them, a depth of fear, and a plea that seemed to think it could persuade Haruka off the barstool if it gazed hard enough. Haruka looked out across the room, unable to hold said gaze as a smile blossomed on his face.

“You know what I’m asking,” Makoto rounded the counter, stopping right in front of Haruka. The artist dared aim his eyes upwards, and was instantly punished—or rewarded, he couldn’t say—by his skin prickling all over his neck and along the curve of his spine.

A huff escaped him. “Yeah.”

“So?”

“…No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Makoto’s lips twisted downwards in an over-dramatic expression of disappointment. But just as quickly as it came, it was gone and Makoto was smiling again. He was also sliding his outstretched hand into the smaller one resting on Haruka’s lap; not saying a word, not tugging, just giving him the choice anew.

Haruka sighed and stood up. “I haven’t done it in half a lifetime, you know. I’ll knock us both over.”

“That’s okay,” Makoto giggled, leading him toward the middle of the room where no tables were in their way, “It won’t be the first time I bruise my butt on this floor, as you may know.”

Tilting his head downwards, Haruka let out a breathy laugh. Quiet, only almost there, but Makoto’s heart was a roar that shivered his body from it, nonetheless.

A new song was playing now, one Makoto seemed to know the lyrics to as well, as he resumed his mellow humming. They fell into position and step effortlessly, and Haruka’s teeth were chewing at his lip as concentration blended with exhilaration and nervousness in a weird emotional cocktail. He exhaled sharply in lieu of actually laughing as they made their first spin turn, shocked by how the motion came so easily. It seemed marred into his bones, a vivid memory even after a decade.

When Makoto slowed them down and dipped Haruka backwards, so far he thought his hair might have just brushed the floorboards, an honest wave of laughter welled up inside him, taking them both by surprise as it tumbled out. Makoto laughed too, but softly, and pulled Haruka back into a standing position. The latter found it nearly frightening how easily undone he came before Makoto. How comfortable it felt to open himself up completely—wordlessly, but so purely. He had been told before that he ought to smile and laugh more, and this barista seemed to be just the right medicine for that problem.

It still scared him, but Haruka was not a coward. Apprehensive to changes and wary of people, yes, but he was a spontaneous soul. And, either way, was it really a leap of faith if he could see his landing; see its harmlessness and its benefits?

Even so, he once again let his head dip forward; as was simply the natural epilogue to his expression of joy. This time, however, he didn’t stop at shielding his face, but allowed his forehead to collide with the other man’s clavicle. He contorted their stance a little, but Makoto didn’t seem to mind. They continued to circle the floor, legs moving swiftly with the smooth, sweet tunes that caressed them both.

“How come you get to do the dipping?” Haruka grumbled against the other’s shoulder, and felt Makoto’s chest rumble below his cheek as a chuckle flew through him.

“Because I’m… taller,” Makoto offered, “It wouldn’t be as pretty if you tried to spin me around and all that, I’m sure.”

Haruka pulled back and removed one of his hands from the other, stepping back to raise the arm still linked at the fingers with Makoto, inviting (ordering) him beneath. With another giggle that sounded like sunshine, Makoto craned his neck low and shrunk beneath the bridge of Haruka’s arm, pattering forward awkwardly until he could rise to his full height again. They resumed the basics of the waltz once more, both unsteady with laughter. Makoto decided then that, rather than the playlist orchestrating his days on repeat, he’d like to hear the sounds Haruka was making instead.

They continued their languid spinning across the floor until the song faded, and did not stop even at the silent pause in between songs. Haruka closed his eyes and listened to the tender breaths that fell against his forehead; as was how closely they held one another by now.

The following song was a little quicker in pace, up-beat but gentle all the same. Makoto held Haruka’s hand a tighter and sped up their steps, any feeling of structure abandoning their skips and turns. The brunet’s thumb smoothed over the creamy skin of Haruka’s hand, and Haruka smiled, pressing his face into the bend of Makoto’s neck.

“Fast…!” Haruka warned curtly. Makoto could hear the smile around his words and decided to push it a little further, spinning them in a hasty whirl that not only tore a taken aback yelp from the shorter man—which, must to Makoto’s success, bled into yet another exuberant laugh—but also proved a little too advanced for both of their feet.

“Whoa!” Makoto exclaimed as they tumbled over, him landing on his back with Haruka clinging to him for dear life. He lost it completely this time, head thrown backwards on the floor as he chortled immodestly. Haruka buried himself in the front of the brunet’s shirt, shaking with quiet laughter as well.

Once they both regained their calm and their breaths, Haruka lifted his head, letting sapphire depths scan the planes of Makoto’s face. The man blinked down at him with a tender set to his features, showing no signs of embarrassment or discomfort other than the ambiguous tint of his cheeks. His lips were pulled into a lazy smile, and Haruka turned warm inside at how natural it all felt. Baring his soul to Makoto; messing around with and being this close to Makoto. From the looks of it, the barista felt the same. It was as if they had done this a million times. Yet, the thrill was not dulled.

Makoto sat up halfway, resting his weight on his elbows. Haruka lifted himself a bit as well, straddling Makoto rather than using him as a mattress. They continued to blink at each other in silence, before Haruka’s hand found Makoto’s waist, and the latter’s gaze faltered. He swallowed visibly, and Haruka thumbed his hip bone, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

He slumped rather than leaned forward, stopping close enough for the tip of their noses to share a little kiss, but did not yet go farther, instead embracing the sensation of shivers dancing across every nook and cranny of his skin.

Makoto’s eyes seemed to melt more and more the longer he stared at Haruka’s face, and eventually he closed them, taking a deep but cautious breath. He looked hesitant and impatient both at once. Feeling somewhat feisty, Haruka nudged his nose against Makoto’s a tad more firmly, grazing them against each other in an eskimo kiss. Makoto giggled faintly, opening his eyes again.

Then, a phone rang.

The barista jerked back in surprise and blinked a few times, before realising it was his own phone. With an “oh,” he fished it out of his pocket, sheepishly explaining to Haruka that it was Nagisa.

For some (not so) inexplicable reason, Haruka felt a sudden animosity toward said blonde well up within him.

“No, I’m still at the shop,” Makoto said into the device, “Oh. Yeah, sure, I—oh, okay. Alright. I’ll be there in… ten minutes. Bye.” He hung up with a sigh, staring at his phone for an unnecessarily long time before putting it away and offering an apologetic smile to the man still hovering above him. “He needs my help with something. So. I guess. Ah…”

“…Yeah,” Haruka murmured, suppressing a pout as he stood up on his feet, closing his jacket that he had yet to take off.

He reached a hand out to help Makoto up as well, and went to gather his sketch book and pencil from the counter. The two of them exchanged a few awkward glances, before Haruka cleared his throat and walked briskly toward the door. “See you.” he said, trying his best to sound normal.

Makoto fiddled with his fingers for a moment, before walking after Haruka, stopping, and calling out, “Haru, wait!”

Said artist stopped in his tracks, waiting for a continuation without turning back around. When it didn’t come, he cast his eyes over his shoulder, watching Makoto’s features twist in tension, and then, feigned collectedness. “…See you tomorrow, Haru.”

With a reluctant nod, Haruka looked ahead again and walked out the door, not seeing the blue wallet with sewn-on fish lying forgotten on the coffee shop floor.

 ***

Haruka was sitting by the counter as per usual, struggling to concentrate on the book before him. Lines about the history of art blurred and overlapped each other in his head, much alike brush strokes on a canvas, ironically. There was no masterpiece behind his eyelids, however; just a sea of frustration and a severe lack of sleep. He had kept himself up the previous night, tossing and turning in the sheets with a booming thunder in his head, a heart over-working itself in ecstasy, and skin that simply refused to stop tingling. He was not sure what it was, but after his little evening of dancing with Makoto—not to mention toppling over him and almost pressing their faces flush together—he couldn’t seem to kill the buzz inside of him. Surely he was coming down with something. Again. However, while he guessed he felt slightly feverish every now and then, it wasn’t quite like having a cold.

Makoto delivered his morning coffee with a cupcake he had not ordered, smiling around the words “There you go! Specially made by yours truly!”

Haruka rubbed at his eyes to make sure it wasn’t sleep deprivation giving him hallucinations. When he removed his knuckles from his face, the cupcake was still there. The base was a naked beige, while the head was covered in baby blue icing and white letters that spelled ‘Happy Birthday Haruka’ in squiggly writing. In the middle stood a low, lonesome candle, striped and lit.

“It’s…”

“Not your birthday, I know,” Makoto interrupted, lifting his palms towards the other, “But we’re not open on weekends so I won’t see you this Sunday. Friday is the closest I could get. Or I mean, technically Monday is the closest I could get, but I—”

“Makoto.” Haruka cut him off, the brunet falling silent with his mouth wide open. He closed it, naturally slipping into a smile, but it began to fade when Haruka showed no instant sign of gratefulness. He opened his mouth once more, presumably to apologise or explain himself further, but Haruka did not need that. “How do you even know when my birthday is?”

“Oh!” Makoto jumped slightly, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out Haruka’s wallet. The latter stared for what was probably a century or so, and then let out a small hum.

“So that’s why the pocket of my jacket felt so light yesterday.”

Makoto laughed merrily. “You must have dropped it when we, um.”

“Yeah.” Haruka nodded and took it from him. His eyes fell to the cupcake before him, and the gesture finally hit him, causing a series of fireworks to go off in his chest. The sparks of the no doubt colourful explosions flowed through his bloodstream, heating him from the core; flaring goose bumps over his flesh like so many times before in Makoto’s company.

“We had to check the ID to know whose it was, of course, and I happened to see your birth date,” Makoto explained further, rubbing his neck sheepishly, as if he had done something wrong. Haruka thought that, despite his unquestionable silliness, Makoto always seemed to do everything _right_.

Haruka reached out tentatively and dragged the little pastry closer to himself, the ghost of a smile rising on his features. He shook his head with a sigh, closed his eyes, and blew the candle out. After a moment of stillness, his blues once again met with Makoto’s soulful orbs. “Thank you, Makoto.”

The green mixed with a vivacious gold when he grinned. “Of course!” He rounded the counter, standing right beside Haruka, and raised his voice just an ounce as he said, “But it’s not a real celebration without…” Makoto took a deep breath.

The second Haruka realised what he intended to do, he catapulted to his feet, planting a palm solidly over Makoto’s lips. “ _If you sing to me I am never setting foot in this coffee shop ever again._ ”

The barista chuckled against his palm and reached up to take Haruka’s hand off of him. In replacement of his mouth, he held those digits with his own, looking down at Haruka affectionately. “Well, I certainly don’t want that.”

Haruka’s eyes remained firm for a few moments more, before he heaved a breath and sat back down, Makoto’s hand slipping out of his.

“Well, discreetly then,” Makoto lowered his voice, “Happy birthday, Haru.” he whispered, walking back behind the counter to take a customer’s order. Nagisa got there first, however, nudging Makoto back where he came from with about forty winks in a row. Makoto chuckled quietly, opting to stand opposite of Haruka as the latter ate his cupcake.

“Sorry it’s not mackerel-flavoured,” Makoto teased, but Haruka seemed not to catch the cheeky ambiance in his words, simply raising his eyebrows for a moment, as if to say ‘me too, but it’s okay.’

“It’s good,” he answered, picking the 'Haruka' kanji off the top to pop in his mouth.

Makoto wondered how someone managed to be endearing in every single thing they did.

“So,” he barista leaned against the counter separating them, “How are you going to celebrate on Sunday?”

“I’m not,” Haruka informed succinctly, “I’ll just stay at home as I usually do. I have assignments to work on, anyway.”

He did not need to look up to know that Makoto was watching him with sympathy. Unwanted sympathy. Haruka did not neglect his own birthdays because he had no friends or family to spend it with, nor because he was bitter in any way; he simply did not see what all the fuss was about. It seemed like a pointless celebration to him, and he did not feel like getting into why. He had tried to explain it to people before, but had learnt that they were so hooked on the concept of birthdays that any criticism or indifference towards it went in one ear and out the other.

“Oh,” Makoto said, unsure of what to say, “Are you sure you don’t want to do anything? If you don’t feel like arranging a thing yourself, I’d be more than happy—”

“No thank you,” Haruka cut him off again, “I just don’t want it big. If I did, it _would_ be, but it’s not, because I don’t care for it.”

Makoto threw him off with a chuckle. “Somehow, that’s a very Haru thing of you to say.”

Haruka shrugged. He _was_ Haru, after all.

“Not very fond of the attention, right?”

Another shrug. “Partially.”

“Well, okay then,” he accepted, standing up as Nagisa motioned for him to help out, “It’s a shame though. Haru deserves to be celebrated.”

Haruka seemed to forget how to chew at that, freezing in his place for a few beats. Again, he did not need to look at Makoto to know that there was a smile directed his way.

He observed the barista as he worked the espresso machine, proceeding to top the drink with steamed milk that created a pattern Haruka could not view from where he sat. He wouldn’t mind spending his Sunday with Makoto. He wouldn’t mind spending his _birthday_ with Makoto, even though he much preferred being alone. You simply never knew what others were planning behind your back. Massive cakes, house parties, or even bachelor-party-styled kidnappings… At least when he was alone, Haruka knew what to expect. A quiet evening of relaxation sounded like a fine celebration to him.

Although, at the same time, he found his interest piqued at the question of what Makoto would do for him. They hadn’t known each other that long—not counting their brief encounters when Haruka was a regular half a year ago—so he probably wouldn’t go as big as Haruka’s older friends (or god forbid, his father) would. Yet, Makoto seemed like the type of guy to do something exceptionally heart-warming. Heart-warming was better than crazy, consequential or dangerous, though. But was it better than safe? Better than unsurprising? Was it worth the draining bother of being the center of attention for twenty four hours?

Probably not. But in the end, the scale tipped over at the allure of spending time with Makoto outside of work. Out of sight, away from disturbances.

“Makoto,” he called out with a certain softness to his voice as said man was about to pass him with the latte art he had just made. Makoto came to a halt, looking down at Haruka curiously, who would not meet his eyes. “Are… Are you free on Sunday?”

Makoto did what he was best at and lit up like the sun.

 ***

Haruka could not for the life of him comprehend why Makoto thought it necessary to shield the black-haired man’s eyes. Anyone could deduct from the thick scent of chlorine—not to mention the process of _changing into swimming trunks_ before entering—that they were at an indoor pool. Yet, Makoto was persistent in not letting Haruka view his surroundings upon their entrance. He feared Makoto might have put up gaudy decorations all over the room or something.

They walked through the swing door of the changing room, and Haruka’s heart fluttered like a bird stretching its entire wingspan in elation as the soles of his feet stepped onto the glossy tiles. But something was different about the overall atmosphere, and it wasn’t just due to Makoto’s warmth percolating through Haruka’s body from behind. A few seconds ticked by before the artist realised how exceptionally _silent_ the hall was. He had been here plenty of times in the absence of noisy children, but this was something else. He almost swore he could hear his own heart beat bouncing off the walls.

Then he realised.

“Makoto,” he said quietly, “The pool… isn’t open on Sunday nights.”

There was a delicate giggle behind him, much too close to the shell of his ear for Haruka not to turn hot all over despite his lack of clothing. “I know, Haru.” Makoto said simply, and removed his hands from Haruka’s eyes.

Haruka looked around, but despite the lack of people besides Makoto and him, everything was as usual. He took a few experimental steps forward, as if expecting the room to burst into a maelstrom of confetti and balloons if he stomped on the right (wrong) floor tile. He was not going to waste his time trampling all over the room when he could be swimming, however, and instead chose to turn toward Makoto and his smile to pull some clarification out of him.

Makoto’s explanation was easily prompted by the mixture of relief and expectance that spiked Haruka’s demeanour. “You said you didn’t want anything big, so I decided not to go for anything big,” he shrugged, “but I still wanted to do something that I knew would make you happy, and though I haven’t actually seen you in the water yet… I can tell it makes you happy.”

Haruka could not tear his eyes from Makoto, and the reason as to why was beyond him. He couldn’t care for it though; he was too busy clinging to the words slipping from Makoto’s curved lips.

“I’ve also noticed you seem the most at ease when it’s just the two of us. Or, well, it’s no secret you prefer solitude overall, I guess… But…” Makoto rubbed at his arm, perhaps sheepish of his imperfect explanation of motive, or awkward under the heavy gaze of Haruka, “But. This is what I came up with. I booked the pool after closing hours, so it’s all ours until eleven. If you want to leave earlier and do something else, that’s okay too. This is your day, so I want it to make you as content and comfortable as possible. You deserve that.”

“Makoto…” Haruka stepped closer, the hint of a smile growing on his own features as well.

“Actually, I think Haru deserves that _every_ day, but I can’t assure it’ll always be like that.” Makoto let out a heavy breath, steadily locking his jade eyes with Haruka’s glazed blues. “Although, I would readily make it my goal nonetheless, if Haru would let me.”

Haruka couldn’t stop the faint scoff that rose inside of him. _What is that, a marriage proposal?_ “Silly.”

Makoto laughed frivolously. “You think so?”

“Mm,” Haruka’s eyes fell to the floor. He had never been within ten metres of a pool, fully equipped with swimming trunks and goggles, without going in for this long before. Strangely, he did not find himself itching to wrap up their conversation. He did not really feel like doing anything special. With Makoto there, it seemed most anything was fine. “Embarrassing and unrealistic.” he elaborated with a teasing edge to his tone.

“Well then,” Makoto stepped forward, brushing Haruka’s bangs to the side a bit, “What do you say about getting to swimming, instead?”

 ***

If Haruka did not have to hold his breath under water, he’d have released a deep exhale the moment his hands spiked the water surface and his body followed right after. The feeling of the water’s caress was always the same, always familiar and new both at once, like a honeymoon-stage that never ceased. He nearly forgot where he was once fully submerged, the pressure of the blue substance captivating his thoughts; propelling him forward with just a few movements.

Haruka swam beneath the surface for more than half a length, before rising to take thorough freestyle strokes. Once he reached the wall, he somersaulted swiftly and pushed away with his feet against the tiles, careening forward into another lap. Repeating the motions a few times, he began to lose count of the amount of metres he had swam, as well as failing to notice Makoto sitting by the starting block to observe him in fascination.

After a while, Haruka stopped to regain his breath and embrace the familiar burn in his joints. He shook some of the water out of his hair, at which Makoto chuckled lightly.

“Feeling good?” the barista asked, and Haruka glanced up at him without answering. Soon he was on his back, floating back out toward the middle of the pool and sighing as the tension left his muscles.

He closed his eyes briefly, but let them flutter open again at the gentle rocking of waves as Makoto entered the water. He swam over to Haruka, admiring the man’s ease for a moment before doing a couple of laps himself in the neighbouring lane. Although Haruka wanted nothing more than to lose himself to this well-known sensation as he always did when lying among the waves, he couldn’t help but pay attention to the brunet swimming on his back next to him. He could tell Makoto was good, but it was also evident that he hadn’t swum competitively for many years. As was the case for Haruka himself, though.

Haruka waited for Makoto to return to him before standing up and hovering slightly over the lane dividers so as to get the barista’s attention. It proved a rather risky strategy, however, as Makoto’s arm nearly smacked right into his head. Snapping backwards, Haruka managed to avoid it, and then shot a hand out to grab Makoto by the wrist. He halted right away, eyes finally finding Haruka.

Makoto stood up as well, giving the other man a puzzled look.

“Swim with me,” Haruka commanded more so than bid him, and Makoto’s mouth curled into a smirk.

“I thought that’s not why you swim?”

“I don’t mean a race.” he argued, letting go of Makoto’s hand to kneel beneath the water, concealing himself up to his chin. “Swim freestyle with me.”

The brunet looked somewhat taken aback, but complied to the request. With a nod of his head, Haruka kicked himself forward, but kept his motions leisure until Makoto had caught up with him. Then, he stretched his arms out to their full length, once again gliding through the water with an overwhelming tinge of pleasure to his senses. Knowing Makoto was mirroring his actions, coming along with him in his favourite place, made it even more therapeutic.

He swam with his eyes sealed shut for a while, not even having to look as they spun around by the wall and began yet another lap; the timing and technique was as natural to him as breathing. After a few turns, however, he opened his eyes to find Makoto looking back at him from the other side of the divider. Each time he tilted his head upwards to breathe, Makoto caught his eyes. He was not smiling, as his lips were rather occupied catching air while they had the chance, but there was something keen in his orbs all the same. He looked fond, happy. Furthermore, the sight of Makoto swimming freestyle—Haruka’s stroke—was like seeing him in Haruka’s favourite shirt. Tickling elation billowed through him, and his inhales slightly lost their flawless regularity.

As they neared the farthest wall for what was possibly the hundredth time, Haruka began to slow his pace. Instead of racing to tumble into the opposite direction, he floated through the last handful of metres, gingerly placing his palms against the tiles beneath the water surface. While still remaining under the surface, he looked to the side, seeing that Makoto had stopped as well. The brunet kept above the water, however, and Haruka got the chance to assess his impressive physique for a short while, until Makoto dove under as well.

They stared at each other through the blue, Makoto’s face expectant. Haruka tilted his head to the side, wordlessly asking what he was waiting for. Somehow, the barista must have picked up on his inquiry, and his eyes—squinted to half-mast due to the chlorine—flitted to the floor of the pool.

They both hovered by the wall of the deep end, Haruka watching Makoto as Makoto watched his feet. Then, determination coiled around Haruka’s muscles out of nowhere, persuading him to move.

He widened his arms in two idle strokes until he was right before the other, who slowly raised his gaze to meet with the undisguised one of Haruka’s. Although his cheeks were a little puffed out, he managed a smile, and Haruka would have laughed at his oh so characteristic attempt at pacifying Haruka’s wonderment, had he not been underwater.

He reached a hand out, fingers fanning over Makoto’s waist, but hesitant to get a good grip. Makoto did not hesitate his mimicry, however, and let his hand travel along the length of Haruka’s out-stretched arm, all the way to his shoulder and down his chest, the side of his abdomen, until he was mirroring Haruka’s touch. The latter glided his free hand through the expanse of water in between them, cupping Makoto’s face with all the softness in the world. Makoto closed his eyes, leaning into the touch.

Haruka felt a sudden urge to cry, which was weird because, at the moment, he was anything but sad.

There was a pressure in his lungs from the lack of oxygen, and it triggered impatience within him. Thus, he snaked his left hand from Makoto’s side to the small of his back, effortlessly bringing them closer together. The hand that rested on the barista’s scorching cheek let its thumb feel the tender flesh of his lips, trailing the upper and the bottom with a growing urge to explore.

Haruka’s hand wandered down the other man’s jawline, the column of his throat and the solid surface of his chest. Pressing his palm flat against Makoto’s left pectoral, he could sense the ticking of a heart confined inside.

Makoto’s eyes slid open, speaking volumes of something too unfamiliar for Haruka to decipher. But among the heaps of emotions, he could pinpoint adoration and, what was perhaps the strongest one: desperation. He wanted to ask about it, but his words would fall incomprehensible the moment they left his lips. As was one of the few downsides to the water.

Makoto kicked his legs then, sending himself back toward the air. Haruka assumed he must have read the question on his face, retreating upward to be able to answer it. He followed suit, pushing himself north, and gasping forcefully once his head was out of the liquid.

“Makot—” he began, attempting to get some thorough communication through. The brunet interrupted him immediately, however, grabbing his face with urgency and kissing him as if he had been waiting to do so since the day they met.

Somehow, Haruka did not doubt that to be the case.

He let his eyelids fall shut like heavy blinds, securing one hand at the edge of the pool to keep them afloat easier, while the other combed through Makoto’s wet locks. He felt nearly dizzy from the intensity with which Makoto sucked and nipped at his lips, thinking through his haziness that this was something he’d be content with doing for the rest of the night—or the week, even.

Makoto’s mouth generously shared low, breathy moans with Haruka’s, and the latter knitted his eyebrows together, reciprocating the sounds with a few lighter and shyer ones of his own. He was happy for not standing up, lest his knees would doubtlessly lose all their strength.

Makoto’s hands fleeted downwards, his arms encircling Haruka’s waist and, with a strength that Haruka couldn’t help but find unendurably arousing, he pulled him along toward the other end of the pool. The distance was somewhat long, of course, but it was over in a matter of seconds to Haruka, as he wound his legs around the other man and kept himself busy exploring the interior of Makoto’s mouth with a greedy tongue.

By the time Haruka’s back hit the opposite wall, he was already rutting himself shamelessly against the barista carrying him through the pool. Makoto’s kisses kept falling short, cut off by gasps he couldn’t contain as Haruka rubbed their clothed crotches against each other.

He didn’t know what had exploded within him, but it did not feel all that alien anymore. It had been a dormant desire within the both of them, he knew, and it had only been a matter of time before it blew up.

The water was now low enough for Makoto to stand on the ground, and he hoisted Haruka up onto the ledge. An indignant whine tore from the dark-haired man as their lips parted, but at the sight of how swollen and hued Makoto’s had become, his exasperation was almost soothed.

“Haru…” Makoto breathed harshly, lowering his head to kiss the skin of the other’s knee. He continued upwards at a leisure speed, caressing the other thigh with a hand. “Can I…?” he inquired lowly, glancing up through his water-darkened bangs with childish plea.

Haruka leaned back, putting his weight on his palms, arms trembling ever so slightly. He gnawed at his bottom lip and nodded vigorously, despite being unsure of what Makoto meant. _Whatever you want. I don’t care._

“Lift your hips a little?” he demanded softly, and Haruka pressed the soles of his feet against the vertical plane of the floor, heaving himself off the ground with his hands on the edge. Makoto hooked his fingers in the hem of the other’s trunks, eyes darting up to ask for a second confirmation that it was okay to proceed. In response, Haruka released a keen, unabashed mewl, and Makoto closely resembled a child opening a present as he pulled the jammers over Haruka’s hips.

His semi-erection sprung free with little shame, groans escaping both men in unison. Haruka sat back down, shivering as the chilly tiles collided with his buttocks, but the discomfort was soon forgotten as Makoto’s hand took a steady hold of his length.

“ _Makoto_ …” he breathed, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning back a bit, “I don’t think this is what they expected when you asked to book the pool…”

Makoto laughed heartily. “Probably not, no.” he agreed, free hand roaming up and down the artist’s front in lazy strokes. The other hand pulled at Haruka’s cock fervently until it stood up fully and pre-cum was beginning to drip from it. Haruka’s noises got stuck in his throat, and once Makoto planted his lips around the tip of his erection, the dark-haired man doubled over with nothing but hiccups and gasps falling from him as he pressed his face against the side of Makoto’s head.

Makoto swallowed as much of him as he could manage, humming around the length and causing tingles to shoot throughout Haruka’s body. His blood was careening through his veins, threatening to catch on fire, and his limbs quaked more violently for each second that passed with Makoto’s lips on him.

His tongue forced an unbearable hotness against Haruka’s cock that made the latter flinch repeatedly and send broken moans to bounce off the walls of the room. Grinning around Haruka, Makoto removed his mouth only to drag his tongue up the side of it and over the slit, teasing back and forth in a manner that edged on sadistic.

Haruka was certain Makoto was deliberately trying to kill him, and doubted for a second his assuredness of the man’s unalterably benevolent intentions. But the sensations overpowering Haruka’s senses were so close to pure ecstasy that, surely, Makoto was a deity and not a devil after all. It was incomparable to what Haruka did to himself, locked away in his bedroom at one A.M. Whenever he found himself there by himself after this, Makoto’s fingertips digging into his side would be what he thought of; Makoto’s cheeks hollowing around his flushed cock would be what introduced him to oblivion.

“Makoto, I can’t take it anymore,” he wailed feebly, hands gripping with immense desperation at the brunet’s shoulders, not finding the steadiness he clawed after, despite their width.

“Then come,” Makoto murmured, struggling to be intelligible what with the other’s erection shoved halfway down his throat.

Haruka did as told, grabbing two fistfuls of Makoto’s hair and pulling a tad too roughly. His own sounds drowned out those Makoto uttered in warning, however, and Haruka came in his mouth with a drawn-out groan and an out of breath “ _I love you_ , I love you… Oh god, I…”

Makoto swallowed what was given to him, all the while his chest contracted with a consuming force of fondness for the man folded double over him. As soon as Haruka was spent, nothing left to spill from his erection nor his lips, Makoto pulled away, hauling himself off the floor of the pool to kiss the fine skin beneath his ear. “Me too, Haruka,” he whispered against the man’s ear, throat clenching when Haruka responded with two arms hugging Makoto close around his neck. He hummed lowly and smiled against Haruka’s chest, embracing his middle as tightly as he could without dragging the artist back into the water.

After a minute or so, Haruka began to pull back tentatively, and Makoto threw a glance up at him before hoisting himself up to sit beside Haruka, who fell back to lie against the cold floor. Makoto watched him with a burning adoration, attempting to sweep the thick bangs from Haruka’s face. The latter decided to cover all of it with his hands, however, rendering Makoto’s consideration futile. The brunet swore he could almost see the flush of Haruka’s cheeks beam right through those digits.

“I can’t believe you’d make me do that in a _pool_.” Haruka chided, although the muffling of his voice did little to amplify the threat in it.

Makoto chuckled, tucking a piece of wet hair behind Haruka’s ear, for what it was worth. It slipped out disobediently right away. “Wasn’t it exciting, though?”

“It could have gotten _dirty_.” he continued sternly, failing to elicit any remorse from the other. Instead, the brunet simply leaned in to press a firm kiss against Haruka’s temple, breathing in the scent of him mingled with that of the pool water.

With an incontestable tenderness to his voice, Makoto laughed in endearment and murmured against his hairline, “Happy birthday, Haru.”


End file.
